


Iago

by kreigen



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Inner Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-10-25 13:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10765044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kreigen/pseuds/kreigen
Summary: Three-parter set in S4 directly after the "marriage" argument. An exploration of the impact of Patsy's reluctance to show public affection with Delia, and the impact that has on each of them.Also an insight on the differences between the two and how they have opposing coping methods!Chapter 1 is Delia, and Chapter 2 is Patsy, and Chapter 3 will be a conclusion involving both.The idea for the name came from a song by Grace Petrie - "Iago" - do please have a listen as it is fantastic - I will explain more in the notes if you are interested.





	1. Looks

_Anger_.

The diminutive Welshwoman was rarely angry; her patience was legendary in its fortitude, able to withstand the hardest of trials. It had been a trusty companion to her ever since her life had become forever enmeshed with a certain other _Patience_ who wasn’t always as sturdy as her personality trait, and she was certain she would have to lean on it heavily in the years that were to come.

But it was anger that brimmed in her now, hotter and faster than the tears that were streaming down her face as it crumpled into the lonely pillow of her single, nursing home bed, strangled cries into the soft fabric going blessedly unnoticed as she tried to insulate her despair from the other residents; it avoided awkward lies and jumbled excuses.

In earlier days after Patsy had relocated to Nonnatus House she had palmed people off with empty platitudes about feeling “tired” or having had a “hard day at work” when she was feeling particularly morose about her romantic predicament. She now ‘preferred’ (if that’s what you could call it) to wallow privately in her own sadness until she was sick of it, and then, once she had calmed down, to carry on.

There were so many things for Delia Busby to be angry at: she was angry at herself for her flippant remarks, angry at that ridiculous, overcautious redhead, angry at the unavoidable situation they shared, and most of all, angry at _everyone else_ for deigning their relationship unworthy of recognition.

As her sternum heaved and contracted with what could only be described as _heartache_ , she ruminated on her regrettable remarks she had made to the other woman.

“ _Why?”_ she groaned into the pillow clenching her hair at the back of her head and pushing her head down, as if she could smother her anguish into silence. _Why_ had she made those comments about marriage in the café? She _knew,_ knew with absolute certainty she would never get married, would endure 100 years of secrecy with Patsy before she would endure even one day of a traditional façade of a marriage with some unfortunate man. She punctuated her muted growling by removing her fists from her hair and driving them into the pillow; she had only been trying to get a rise out of that impossible woman, some sort of reaction other than the forced, cold neutrality that had stared at her from across the table when she had _dared_ to touch Patsy’s hand in public.  
  
Following this trail of thought suddenly made her shift the burden of blame away from herself; was her reaction not proportional given her treatment by that _foolish_ woman? She was always so scared; Patsy’s head was so often poised to look over her shoulder Delia was shocked it hadn’t permanently twisted that way for good. It left them in this inane position where Patsy was less affectionate towards Delia than her friends as if she truly believed being _that_ overprotective would absolve them from suspicion. Delia’s opinion was that it just drew more attention to the issue, but she did hold a more recalcitrant attitude towards the situation as a whole.     

It was only more painful when juxtaposed against the version of Patsy that she got access to when the pair of them were alone; the unchained, exuberant Pats full of smiles that were reserved only for her, bursting with emotion that _never_ graced her public, cool demeanour. Just as remarkable was the sad and broken Patsy, and whilst she never relished the other woman’s difficult times, she felt _privileged_ that she was the only one trusted enough to see them without restraint. She got sides to the woman that only she would ever see, and it just made it seem all the more unfair that nobody else would ever be permitted to acknowledge that world, because it was _beautiful_.  

Delia twisted forcefully to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling, her azure eyes framed with tell-tale blotchiness, her tears now silent and slow. She felt cumbersome in her clothing, having thrown herself on the bed without so much as taking off her coat. Being in love, she concluded, whilst full of reward, was utterly terrible for your nerves and very much a labour.

Rolling over somewhat awkwardly, she breathed in deeply into the side of the pillow where Patsy had lasted rested her head in one of their stolen visits. She convinced herself she could still smell a trace of _her_ there and dwelled obliviously in this thought for a few seconds, wishing she wasn’t alone. What she wouldn’t give for the comforting scent of bleach, perfume, lacquer and Patsy’s _skin_ ; that unnameable unique aroma that every person seemed to have their own of. She lamely traced the imaginary outline of Patsy’s figure with a trembling hand before letting it fall uselessly to the bed.

She couldn’t stay truly cross with her lover for long though, not really. She’d meant what she said – she really would marry her tomorrow if she _could_. She felt a lump form in her throat as she contemplated the impossibility of it all and acknowledged that it would _never_ be an option, not for people like her, people like Patsy. The dark room around her seemed to encroach on her personal space and merge with her blackening mood as the threat of tears began to tickle at the edges of her eyes once more, just as she thought she had freed herself from their toxic grasp.

That hadn’t stopped her from imagining it though; picturing it, planning it in her mind as if that would ease the agony of knowing it would never be rather than compounding it – wasn’t every girl supposed to dream about her wedding? Why should that preclude a girl who had fantasies filled with a different type of suitor?

Her head could conjure up a slideshow of achingly realistic scenes to both treat and torture herself with. She supposed she would wear a dress, even if it was not a “traditional” wedding (it was only in her head that this was going to happen, she could do whatever she so well pleased). Even more wondrous of a thought path to follow would be what _Patsy_ would wear – she looked so utterly gorgeous in shirt and trousers or a dress; Delia could _extensively_ envisage the enviably fashionable woman pulling off either look. She could wear a sack cloth with a hole cut in it and somehow make it seem current.

She wondered if she’d like to be the first to walk up the aisle, or come in second (nice to have the luxury of choice) – would she prefer to watch Patsy walking up, or to be the one being watched? Either possibility bought a giddy smile to her face, before it was dashed immediately by how preposterous it was.

Or maybe they could walk together she thought, allowing the image to return once more – she quite liked the idea of them striding defiantly past everyone, metaphorically spitting in the face of all the ideals that systematically anchored them in a sea of secrecy, filled with night time whispers, painful circumspection, and uninvited questions from those who demanded to know why she was still “single”. The knowledge that she could not bat back their invasions of her privacy by asserting that she was _spoken for_ consumed Delia in the moment, and she broke out of her reverie to regard the dark walls of her single room once more.  
  
Was that not just it though? Did that not just frame how unfair the whole scenario was? That a man and woman could marry despite not necessarily having once ounce of true feeling between them, and she was forced to carry her love like a refugee would their last possessions, clinging it to her breast in the fear that someone may take it from her.  She couldn’t just book a Church, invite all the significant people in her life, pronounce her feelings, and be thoroughly congratulated on the affair. She’d never share in the girlish preparations and the excitement of all her friends as they helped prepare her for the _big day_. Instead she was forced to communicate her deepest longings through lidded glances, sly appraisals of her lover’s body when she was sure her wandering eyes would not be caught, knowingly long gazes that were plausibly deniable in their romantic intent to outsiders.

So many _looks_.

Sometimes it felt like she was bursting at the seams from stuffing down her longings like errant clothing in a suitcase, and forcibly latching the lid down as if by the time you opened it again, everything would be miraculously organised rather than exploding into a worse mess than before. Of course, there were times where the pressure could be eased – irregular night time visits, rushed affection when they found themselves unexpectedly alone, words over the table, touches of the hand (when Patsy didn’t panic about it) but Delia Busby was greedy with her emotions; she just wanted more.

Patsy just wore it better than her. Delia wore had her heart firmly attached to her sleeve and liked to carry sentiments out in the open, believing that trapping them in only aggravated them – like caging a wild animal. Her tall redhead was far more reticent in her everyday expressions, and had picked up this guarded persona from her childhood experiences in the Internment Camp. Delia supposed it was far easier for the older woman to let her affection out in small doses, or mute her desires in public, because that is what she had _always_ done. As had been previously noted by Delia this evening, the Patsy she had access to in private was the exception to this lifetime habit – and although she was grateful to have earned her love’s trust, it did limit the scope of their current relationship.

Delia found it near impossible to have such tight control, finding that once the lid was taken off, pure _want_ would gush through and have to be lassoed back before it bolted from the confines of its prison. If you could capture all those looks that communicated her innermost thoughts, she was certain they would smoulder with all the burning intent she had to corral back into a place of safety, shut away, and lock until she was permitted otherwise. But all that succeeded in doing was feeding this irascible, animal yearning and maddening it through the drought of attention, she only wanted her _more_. Paradoxically and infuriatingly this almost led to _less_ as she knew that her ardour had the power to turn her lover skittish and anxious if applied in wrong situation; one overly-brave gesture could earn her an evening of detachment.

Just like today.  

As her mind turned full circle back to its original inception, with a sardonic self-admonishment that nothing had been achieved through these mental gymnastics, Delia became overwhelmed with exhaustion from sheer thinking. As tiredness dramatically threw itself into her arms like a dance partner ready for the final lift, Delia’s eyes began to stutter between views of the depressed room and the grace of her eyelids across her grateful, stinging eyes. She floated out of her ruminations long enough to acknowledge that her face was damp with the tracks of renewed crying, which she had been too distracted to mark as it had streamed down her face. Brushing a still shaking hand across the evidence, and knowing she would once again have to cover up puffy eyes tomorrow, she fell into a deep slumber, the kind that can only be achieved by the fatigue of overthinking, and the weariness it brings upon its conclusion.


	2. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So as promised, this is the scene from Patsy's POV, after Delia has left her in the street following the argument.
> 
> I plan one more chapter to this to wrap everything up, hope you enjoy!

  
Sometimes, Patsy felt as if she must have the devil on her shoulder. That is, if the devil was simply a more paranoid version of herself.  
  
It was insatiable sometimes - the call of that cautious watcher. Her guardian in poison armour. The advocate of bitter secrecy. She could wrap it up in endless metaphors but she knew what it really amounted to was cowardice. Or was it an uncomfortable necessity?  
  
It was that hesitant spectre, that same persistent voice that had chimed from ear to ear when a delicate hand had enveloped her own across the cafe table. Warm sensations of skin on skin had morphed to comfort and gratitude, and the older woman had felt herself instinctively wanting to reciprocate the action and revel in the peace it could provide. But at the same time that onerous voice had drowned out her more affectionate proclivities:  
  
_What if someone sees you Patsy? What if they finally figure it out? Is one moment holding a hand worth losing her for?_  
  
And with that the moment was tarnished, and Patsy was left with the split second decision of whether or not to pull her hand away immediately (hideously rude and likely to draw attention) or simply convey her anxiety through a pointed stare. In the end, she opted for the kinder option (if there was one), but the damage was already done, and Delia’s hastily withdrawn hand had burned a brand into her own as hot as her icy look was cold. The atmosphere between them had practically frozen; the awkwardness holding them in this uncomfortable tableau that seemed to capture, in a snapshot, everything that was causing this relationship to flounder.

_Or is it the only thing stopping it from failing?_

There it was again, clear and crisp as the night air she slowly exhaled whilst staring aimlessly at the empty space before her where a telling Delia-shaped lacuna continued to sear the Welshwoman’s absence into her retinas. She seemed rooted to the cobbled street beneath her, as if a woman-shaped tree had just sprouted from the gaps between the stones. Sometimes her whole life seemed to be conducted inside such gaps, the shady area between things; whether it be an unattended corner, or a deserted corridor, or the relative safety of your lover’s room after a tense gauntlet of tiptoeing past closed doors that always threatened to open. She was never at the forefront in these moments, but hidden in her own shady underworld, masked with her infinite layers of caution and security, and armed with readymade excuses, like she was the world’s most intricately locked vault, under constant guard. But what was the point of protecting something so well if nobody could ever break in to use it, or better still, enjoy it?

Her head dipped with the heaviness of her burden, which weighed like a lead scarf across her slumped shoulders. For an infinitesimally small moment, tears made serious threats of revolting and making an appearance at the corners of her eyes in a protest against her composure, before they were ushered forcefully back in to confines of their ducts; the prison which they struggled to ever escape from. Patsy schooled herself back into a collected pose; she would not allow herself to become frivolous and emotional. There was only one person she could bear to allow to see her in a state like that (if completely unavoidable), and as that person was not an option for comfort at this present time (on account at being utterly livid with her). Her hurt would once again have to fester deep down with every other mounting example she had collected since childhood; unaccounted for and undealt with.     

The entire episode happened so fast, she suspected nobody other than her absent lover would have ever noticed it, but she couldn’t help a well-practiced glace around to check her faltering moment had indeed gone unmarked. Pleased with the result of her observations, she began to walk slowly back to Nonnatus house.

As the dark streets and houses of Poplar passed by in her periphery, placing neutral and emotionless images between herself and the scene of the argument, Patsy managed to gain some space from that terrible, parasitic voice, and it finally began to occur to her that she had had _maybe_ , _possibly_ gone perhaps a _little too far_ this time with her protective distancing from Delia. It was only the touch of a hand for pity’s sake; if it had been Trixie across the table from her, she might have gone as far to place her own hand over the top in gratitude! But instead she treated her dearest companion like a leper, and in return she would have to accept drowning in the depth of pain she had elicited from the cerulean eyes across the table for the next week; it wasn’t going to be easy to shift that image from her mind.

If that wasn’t enough to send her throat plummeting down to the base of her stomach with a sickening plunge; Delia’s words would have bludgeoned her guilt into her with all the subtlety of a motor car crashing into a pedestrian. Ever mindful of unwanted voyeurs, Patsy managed to keep a cool veneer as she recalled some of the more cutting elements of Delia’s speech, but inside the implications bounced around her bones and sent shockwaves through her organs.

 _“And just accept that you and I can never be_.”

_Maybe she is right._

Within an instant, that dread-laden voice had returned, echoing Delia’s words and adding her own assent to them. She stopped in her tracks then, stilled in her march away from the disastrous meeting, and had to shake her head in admonishment; that was _definitely_ too far.

_Or is it?_

She couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed her mind in her darker hours when her more fatalistic, pragmatic self took temporary control over her and the whole venture just seemed like a romantic dream that had got out of hand. Perhaps it was that women _like her_ (a phrase which always elicited an internal cringe from Patsy) just could not be afforded the happiness they desired. She _ached_ with the love she felt, and had gone to such great lengths to maintain it, but there was always the possibility that it would never get any better than this. As she restarted her solitary walk, not wanting to loiter at this hour, Patsy wondered if in 50 years’ time there would be another woman like her treading this same path. She hoped, blindly, that things could maybe one day get better and people could be left to live in peace; why such a taint had been placed on her simply for something so harmless was something she would never understand.                 

But it was something else that Delia had blurted out that finally managed to chase away these more self-destructive thoughts from her mind.

_“Yes, more than anything…to you, you fool”_

Despite everything, that did cause a slight wave of adrenaline and an almost unnoticeable (but significant) curve at the corners of Patsy’s lips. It wasn’t every day that someone told you they wanted to marry you, let alone the one person you actually wanted to hear it from. Patsy supposed she should be happy that Delia felt that way about her; if it wasn’t for the absurdity of the proposal given the legal context, there would be no doubt that it was the right thing to do. Patsy wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of ruminating over something so futile; but she couldn’t ignore the pull in her chest that belied her true feelings. They had that at least; adoration, dedication, and sometimes _hope._ It was a shame that she had pushed the woman that far to cause her to admit it, but at least it was there. If that was all they could survive on for now, she’d take it.

_Exactly. So perhaps it is better this way after all? Isn’t a week of angry Delia worth keeping her for a lifetime?_

As she abruptly realised that she was at the foot of the lonely staircase leading up to Nonnatus House with only her own taunting thoughts to keep her company, she allowed herself a brief moment to reflect before ascending. Maybe her overcautious demon had a point; she only did all this to keep it all together. If they were both as bleeding heart as Delia, goodness knows what a state they’d be in. Patsy had lost too much in her life; a mother and sister to typhoid, and a father to distance. With the carefully erected walls she maintained around her personality, there was only one person left who could look right over the top, and ironically that was one of the shortest people too. If the price to pay for heeding the advice of her watchful guardian was occasional unintended offence that was an acceptable cost, because in return she got to maintain the last bastion of love she had left. Every pull away, every warning look was just protection from a world that seemingly wanted to tear them apart. She wished (absurdly) she could take Delia and build their own life without the constant threat of discovery, so they could always be as free as they were when they were alone. No danger, no secrecy, just the pair of them.

_If only it could be that simple._

Patsy took the first step towards her home, and steeled herself back into her usual self once more; the next few days were going to be tricky. She would have to find a way to apologise to Delia for upsetting her so badly, and also a way to assure her feelings were just as strong as hers, so the Welshwoman didn’t feel threatened by the strength of her confession. Patsy couldn’t stand imbalance in their relationship. It would not be simple, but there would be a way.

When Patience Mount her mind to something, you could be sure it would get done.  


	3. Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy tries to make it up to Delia following the argument, set after the reconciliation at the Scout Group, but before the flat hunting.
> 
> Apologies it has taken so long to complete, but I hope you enjoy and I will perhaps re-visit this couple in the future!

“That one” Patsy smiled, gesturing with graceful enthusiasm.

She carefully rehearsed her cover story in her head as the dapper shop assistant removed her choice from the glass-fronted case; she’d had plenty of time to practice it on the bus ride into town, but the thought still bought a freezing cold lump to the back of her pale throat. The ever present devil on her shoulder picked up on it immediately, conjuring up an image as if by some dark magic.

_“You’re one of **them,** aren’t you” – the shop assistant leers as he learns his elbow on top of the cabinet in an accusatory manner with a finger pointed straight at her, he eyes boring holes through Patsy’s conscience as his face comes close enough for her to smell his angry, hot breath, his demeanour practically screaming the disgust that anyone could consider such a lifestyle-_

“Excuse me ma’am?”

Patsy snapped out of her reverie, the horrific mirage disappearing before her eyes, as she tried to replace her vacant, anxious stare with a more polite and engaged expression.

“Sorry I was just…” she looked down at the ring that the man has removed from its display, and couldn’t stop a small grin spreading across her face, “…thinking” she finished thoughtfully.

“About the big day?” he smiled, “Although shouldn’t your fella be the one to…” he nodded towards the item presumptively.

“Oh no!” Patsy laughed  with forced jolliness, trying not to sound panicked but failing slightly, “No” she calmed, “I’m here for my brother – he’s to marry soon but he’s hopeless as choosing things for women,  I know the bride better than anyone, so…” she let the shop assistant pass her the ring and examined it.   

“Isn’t that the case with all men?” the assistant chuckled, apparently missing Patsy’s discomfort completely.

“I wouldn’t know” she admitted absentmindedly.

_Too many double layers in that statement, stop taking risks._

Patsy shot her head up at the warning from her own demon, eyes open and fearful to check the reaction of the assistant, but he was only looking at her kindly.

“Don’t worry about that, I’m sure someone will snatch you up given half the chance!”

Patsy smiled politely; of course he would take that as a statement of being unattached rather than being with a woman – it was the logical assumption. She cringed inside at the compliment, never quite sure how to react to over-friendly flirtations from strangers given her usual reticent, guarded manner around them.

_Stop overreacting – you’re acting suspiciously._

She tried to forget the comment, concentrate on the item in her hand, and think about the promise that she had made to Delia that evening after the Scout meeting; no more hiding, and no more shadows - they had to find a way to be happy. She had to make an effort to prove that those words were not just empty platitudes, and Delia was a woman who demanded actions, not endless excuses. If she didn’t do something soon, she was afraid the Welshwoman would get fed up of waiting.

That it how she had come up with the idea for this ring.

She hoped that it would symbolise that she felt the same way as Delia, and that it was circumstance rather than lack of want that prevented them living the way they truly wanted to, and merely a legal boundary that meant they weren’t already married. Patsy knew Delia well, and was sure it would appeal to her romantic nature and love of sentimentality. As a bonus, she had also already thought of a way to pull it off in an understated and calm manner that would not jeopardise the relationship.

The ring was plain and sliver, pretty but not excessively ostentatious by design; Delia would never appreciate and item like that and Patsy didn’t want to choose something that would draw unnecessary attention and awkward questions. Not that it was intended to be worn on the hand – Patsy had thought that out too and had decided the best choice would be to find a chain to thread it through, so perhaps it could be used as a necklace, under a blouse, away from prying eyes…

After all, a little bit of hiding was only sensible; and the important thing would be that Delia know the meaning behind the gift.

“It’s perfect” she smiled, still trying to maintain a friendly distance from the purchase and portray an almost sisterly interest, “I know she’ll love it when he finally gets round to proposing!” she added in as an unnecessarily afterthought as she handed it back to the assistant for purchase.

“You’ve got good taste, maybe she should be marrying you instead!”

For a moment Patsy couldn’t seem to muster a single word, gripped by the cruel tendrils of the idea that she had been discovered. She stood there, ridiculously mute until the man winked and she realised he was merely joking.

 _If only he knew how little of a joke this is, in so many ways_.

* * *

 

It was always a risk sneaking in to the Nursing Home at night. Patsy was well-practised at it, having once lived there and subsequently making several covert visits under cover of darkness to slink into Delia’s room when the loneliness bit harder than she could bear. Her experience at it however did nothing to allaying the chilling, sickening feeling that coursed through her, trickling down her spine and settling at the base of her stomach as she prised open the door and took the first step inside the building.

It was once she had made it fully inside and shut the door that she allowed herself the first opportunity to breathe; it was always a possibility that the journey would have to be aborted immediately if she was caught at its inception. She always had a plethora of excuses to hand just in case she was confronted, but thankfully she had never had to try to convincingly pull one off.

_Yet._

There was nobody around; the only people up would be those on night shifts, and they would naturally be in their respective hospitals. That made things easier in terms of avoiding detection, but also meant that the hallways were, for the most part, deathly quiet, amplifying each tentative step Patsy made through the building.

One of those people on a night shift was Delia herself; Patsy had planned that on purpose to avoid her gift coming across as some sort of grandiose gesture. Going about it in such a secretive manner was a risk, but a calculated one; Patsy didn’t deal well with emotional extremes at the best of times, she had never been one for massive displays of affection and the only two reactions she could imagine coming from her planned actions tonight would be at either end of the spectrum.

There was always a small, but vocal part of her which had entertained the possible chance that Delia would reject the idea (given the atmosphere between them of late), which would be utterly devastating to witness in person; the awkward silences, the faked joy, a drawn out retreat home…no, better to have the bad news delivered in a swift and efficient manner after the embarrassment had passed, no point revelling in the moment.  

Conversely Patsy had also worried that Delia may get so excited about the idea that she forgot her position and possibly make too much of a commotion, and they would both have to explain away Patsy’s presence to an angry Matron at the door. Then no more twilight visits – which didn’t leave much else for them to look forward to at the moment.

Yes, Patsy had considered all options extensively, and the best choice would be to let Delia digest whatever reaction she had to the gift, and then they could discuss it properly once it could be packaged up in a manageable conversation. One step at a time after all; this was not Romeo and Juliet, and she did not plan on shouting anything from a balcony, or on the romance ending in tragedy all for the sake of a sentimental moment. Some couples declared love and gave kisses freely on the street, some slipped envelopes under doors. Patsy knew that unfortunately, they would never be the former.

Nevertheless, she truly hoped that Delia would love it, and that it would go some way towards patching up her recent shabby record of behaviour.

She flinched, and then sighed with relief at every passing door, dealing with the ever present threat of sudden detection, but nothing ever came. Despite the occasional bump, creak, or muted conversation behind the doors (perhaps another stowaway in their midst), Patsy made her way to the familiar entrance to Delia’s room undetected. Bracing herself, she slid the envelope she had prepared from inside her jacket, and slid it through the small gap under the door. Satisfied that the envelope was not able to be seen from the corridor and it would not be intercepted by anyone but the intended recipient, Patsy slightly prayed to herself that this would be worth it before sneaking out as fast as she could the way she had come in.

_I hope you haven’t misjudged this._

* * *

 

When Delia finally made it back to her room at the end of her shift her biggest fear was that once she had sat down, she would never manage to pull herself back up again. If she had three wishes, she’d take a stiff drink, a warm bath, and a back massage from a very specific redhead. But she knew that none of those would be waiting for her when she came home today; and one possibly never would be no matter where she lived. Still, two out of three wasn’t bad. Pity that it was the third one that mattered the most.

All she wanted was the comfort of knowing they could see each other every day, or if not every day at least most days. A bit of privacy wouldn’t hurt either; and neither the Nursing Home nor Nonnatus House were truly safe – there was always the possibility of an unwelcome visitor.

Delia had tried to believe what Patsy had sworn to her after the Scout Group: _“We won’t live as we were”_ she had whispered as Delia looked up with expectant eyes, trying not to cry, _“We’ll find a way to be together”._ The words had been circling repeatedly around her head since that moment…but what difference could she see? Patsy’s promises were starting to feel like vultures closing in on their unsuspecting prey.

As she dejectedly opened the door to the room and shut it gently behind her, Delia wondered if Patsy had _really_ meant what she said. Perhaps she had wanted it to be true so badly that she was making up excuses for Patsy’s bad behaviour. What had the woman actually done to change things or to act on anything she had said? Was this all she would ever eek out of that impossible-

As Delia shut the door and turned on the small bedside light by her single bed, her thought process was cut off by the sight of a small envelope lying on the floor, clearly pushed under the door. Only one person would bother to post a letter to her in the middle of the night, perhaps…

Delia froze. _She wouldn’t_. Could this be it? Would Patsy really deliver a coup de grace via a note after a night shift?! Delia rushed over with a sudden burst of energy and swept the letter up, preparing to tear it open with fervour.

No….Delia paused and stopped her mind from getting carried away. No, she was jumping to conclusions because of her mood. She had got into the habit of expecting the worst when it came to Patsy but this was ridiculous. She’d seen the look of terror in Patsy’s eyes when she’d threatened to marry herself off, and the earnest honesty when she had tried to convince Delia that she would make things right. Now she really thought about it, perhaps she was being a little harsh on her companion; perhaps she wasn’t the best at showing it, but Patsy loved her and that was something she was sure of.

_Was she?_

Delia ignored that pointless internal comment and inspected the envelope. There was something small and hard inside, and what felt like a letter. She knew Patsy better than anyone else and she was better at delivering bad news than good. Bad news had to be delivered to the point, factually, medically if it was work related, but good news had emotions attached to it, expectations, praise, intended reactions, frivolities…it wasn’t that Patsy was incapable of it, or even unskilled at it, it’s just that something pleasant almost came with more baggage.

Which made Delia think that Patsy was frightened of seeing how Delia would react to whatever was inside the letter, because it was something she couldn’t control or predict. This thought puzzled Delia, as she couldn’t figure what it could be that Patsy would feel nervous saying to her face; Patsy was not exactly the type to make a grand gesture.

It was with hesitant expectation that Delia finally pried open the envelope, sitting to rest on the edge of the bed, and unfurled the letter inside. As ever, it was brief and vague enough that nobody else but Delia would understand it (a precaution in case one was ever read by someone else).

_Delia_

_Because I would if I could._

_P_

_xxx_

Perplexed, Delia reached into the letter, and lifted out the silver ring side, and the discreet chain that was coiled in the bottom of the envelope. Completely overcome, she let it sit in the palm of her shaking hand whilst she stared at it, lost for words as her vision blurred with grateful, happy tears.

 _“You fool_.” She hissed, but truthfully she didn’t know if it was directed at the author or the recipient of the letter.  

After a few moments, she burst into a smile and laughed ruefully to herself; to think that she had been too busy griping about Patsy to even consider she might be planning something. She would feel guilty, but the joy simply overpowered the negativity as she kissed the note and placed it down on the pillow and turned her attention to the gift. She wondered how much of her wages Patsy had frittered away on this – she would have to scold her about that later.

But not too hard – she didn’t want her to think she didn’t want it.

Her heart swelling, she briefly allowed herself a moment to slip the ring over the correct finger, allowing herself the privilege of fantasy. She knew she could never wear it openly there, and besides it was a bit too big (as no measurements had been taken), but it felt symbolically right. Perhaps she could convince Patsy to place it on her hand, just once, when it was just the two of them…

_Slow down Deels…you don’t want to scare her away._

Regretfully, she removed the ring, scared it might fall off in the middle of the night, and threaded it through the delicate chain before fastening it behind her neck. She slipped it under her clothes, next to her skin, and somehow it felt even better there; close to the heart and safe from those who might take it away. If she had to keep a secret for the rest of her life, this one was worth it.

When Delia laid down to sleep that night, it was with the warmth of a promise kept resting with a pleasant heaviness against her chest, reminding her that regardless of the many obstacles that could, and probably always would block their path, they always had _hope_.

She slept soundly for the first time in days, making a silent pact to herself to take that feeling with both hands, keep searching for ideas, and when the time was right, do whatever she could to bring it to life.   

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, Iago is a Shakespearean character from Othello - deceiving and manipulating characters whilst appearing honest and trustworthy (information from Wikipedia). 
> 
> However this representation is based on the lyrics of the song by Grace Petrie rather than the characterisation in the play (which is a bit more extreme)! After listening to the song (mentioned in the summary), and how it was used in context, I thought her lyrics were the perfect metaphor for how Patsy tries with best intentions to conceal their relationship (especially in earlier seasons) whilst damaging it at the same time.


End file.
